I am twelve years old, I read Lobstang Rampa. Fourteen years I am afraid of the ghosts I have never seen. Sixteen years I become initiated to yoga. Seventeen years I go on the roads looking for the trail of my life. Twenty seven years I find a way. Thirty years I make the wish looking at a shooting start that my eyes could open themselves to the secret of life.
It is a point on my forehead which goes down in my stomach goes back up to my heart. I am scared. I am scared. I accept it, it was so easy. Ring around my head. Everything comes from what is not, I am not scared anymore to die, everything goes back up to what which is not. Everything becomes sacred, the stone, the table, the life is precious. I am born.
That goes up my spine a moment I am aching in a point of my back, then it continues to go up, go up, it resembles to an orgasm but it does not stop. The music is so beautiful, a flower springs out, a star in the sky, I was wandering from thousand of years. I will never be alone. I hear another language, the hidden language the one of the creation, everything talks about it. One equals two, equals three… Everything goes by two. I am on the mountain, I go back down. I cannot do otherwise. I cannot talk about it. That stays in me, despair, why did you abandon me. Then a bridge, again trails to go across. I let myself carry by the flow without any reaction. I am not looking for anything anymore, although it is still here.
I am here, again I go in a quest. Can I, do I have the right to ask for anything as I got everything? I am on the doorstep of the door mid open, I cannot move neither towards the inside, nor the outside. There was a mirror, it broke itself and it got glued again. How do we use such a mirror, what to do with it?
I am thankful to you to care about such a little topic.
Repuesta del Maestro Kosen
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